


The Last Chance

by vaulthunter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaulthunter/pseuds/vaulthunter
Summary: On the eve of Ostagar's notorious battle, King Cailan invites an exiled princess into his tent for wine and a last-ditch proposal. Politics aside, he quickly learns that his crown commands precious little respect with the dwarf.





	The Last Chance

The king’s tent was spacious and warm. Clusters of lit candles cast flickering shadows along the dark cloth walls, stationed on wooden tables and the surrounding floor. On the far side, a single cot big enough to house three people comfortably, a velvet fur-trimmed coverlet strewn messily over it amidst a nest of plush pillows. A table with a map of Ostagar stretched out upon it sat in the middle of the tent, flecked with war pawns, marking daggers and tiny flags as evidence to the amount of strategizing that had occurred here. 

Fiona caught herself eyeing it. She did not recognize all of the pawns being used, but could tell enough on which were darkspawn and which were soldiers or mages. Pawns with nocked bows stood at the front of the lines at the head of Ostagar’s battlefield, a barricade of mabari warhounds perched in front of them. Mages were spaced rather well throughout the brigade. Fiona wondered how much of this strategy could be accredited to the king, and how much to General Loghain.

“I imagine you’re quite versed in the ways of battle, Lady Aeducan,” said the pale-haired king from across the table.

Her bright golden eyes darted up to meet his. They were of a vibrant light blue that reminded her of her little brother’s favored color. “I don’t think I need to confirm what you already know,” she responded, arching a thick brow.

He merely smiled. That annoyed her. She could verbally rip him apart and he would simply stand there smiling like an idiot, pleased that someone other than Loghain was willing to display some spirit in his presence. The king turned away from her, pacing over to a chest at the foot of his bed and unlocking it, retrieving something from its depths. As he stood, Fiona realized it was a glass bottle, labeled as Moisheker’s red wine. 

“If you’ll indulge me,” said King Cailan, looking down at the bottle with a proud grin. “I think you’ve earned a bit of time to relax before the battle. I understand the Joining is a rigorous process, though I don’t know all that goes into it.” 

He crossed the tent to arrange for two glasses to be filled with the contents of the bottle in his hand. “You mentioned that King Endrin has passed, as well. I know condolences and pity mean little in the face of grief. I was inconsolable when my father disappeared.”

His smile faltered at that. Fiona watched him carefully from where she sat in one of the cushioned chairs by the war table. She accepted his offer of wine when he extended a filled glass to her, raising it to her lips, nostrils inhaling the scent by instinct to ensure she caught no smells of poison. A needless habit up here, but a habit nonetheless. Deeming it safe, she sipped. The liquid was cold in her mouth and hot in her stomach.

“Be transparent with me, Surfacer King,” she demanded. “Why are we here? I am branded a traitor and exile in the eyes of your dwarven neighbors - neighbors that may decide to strike against you if you show any sort of support towards me.”

“I have no fear of the truth, my lady.” The statement came genuine, rather than the blind optimism he usually displayed to her annoyance. He took a seat in the chair beside her, resting an elbow upon the arm, taking a drink from his own glass of gleaming wine. “You didn’t kill Trian Aeducan, this I know. As king, it’s my duty to know the truth of who I choose to ally myself with.”

He was smarter than he gave the impression of.

Fiona leaned back, studying him for a moment. He did look kingly, in the only ways surfacers really could look kingly. Long pale blonde soft curls, fringe fastened into braids that tied off at the back of his head. A firm jaw and dimpled chin beneath the shadow of a beard that had gone unattended to amidst all the battle hubbub, full and soft lips that smiled easily. His skin was sun-kissed, its porcelain pale color tinged with the same red hue that Fiona had obtained in her travels beneath the sun. Bluest eyes peered at her curiously from beneath a prominent, though plucked, brow. 

“You’re asking if the true traitor will ascend the throne,” she observed.

He inclined his head.

“He will.” She took another sip and sat the glass on the table. 

“He will,” Cailan repeated, downcasting his eyes as he mulled over a thought, tapping his index finger against his glass. “And what would you be willing to do to stop that from happening?”

“There is nothing that will stop him now. My father is dead. The heir, and my brother, is dead. I am exiled and now a Grey Warden. Anyone that was standing in the way of his ascension is handled now, and only Lord Harrowmont stands between him and the crown. You remember Harrowmont, surely.”

“He sent me home with ten nugs and a bundle of silks,” Cailan recalled with a fond laugh. “Harrowmont is a good, fair man. Will the  _ dwarva  _ not fall behind him?”

He’d used their word.  _ Dwarva _ . 

“Good and fair isn’t what wins wars in Orzammar.” 

She had thought differently at some point. A point that she couldn’t remember now. How idealistic of a child she had been, naive and confident that the dangerous politicking of Orzammar could never touch her or her beloved brothers. She would not make that same mistake twice when she returned to her people. 

Cailan nodded, a frown of understanding cresting his lips. “I thought as much. You asked me to be transparent, and I would never deny the request of a strong, beautiful and noble woman as yourself. Can I trust you, Lady Aeducan?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, equal parts due to suspicion and curiosity. She nodded as affirmation after a long pause. 

“Ferelden will see a new queen in the coming days after we make our stance against the darkspawn here.” The king had adopted a new tone, all-business, as he sat his glass of wine down and leaned forward to meet Fiona’s gaze true and steely. “We will unite with Orlais through the rite of marriage. This has been in the works for quite some time now, as my current wife has proved… difficult to conceive children with. But I have my warranted doubts in how the Bannorn will receive an Orlesian queen.”

“And what does this have to do with me and Orzammar?”   


“How would you feel about a union between Orzammar and Ferelden, instead?”

The question was sprung on her with such haste and confidence that, at first, she had no idea what to do with it. Her plump lips fell open, head tilting in confusion. “Did you miss the part where I said I was exiled and branded a traitor?”

“It will take time, I know.” He leaned back in his chair, seemingly pleased that she did not immediately shut the proposition down. “But should you be able to… reveal the truth to your people and reclaim your spot in the line of succession, I am certain that the Bannorn will meet our union with no resistance. Orzammar and Ferelden are long-standing allies. It is only with you that one of noble birth, a victim to treacherous deeds, rises to the surface and, quite conveniently, ends up with Ferelden’s king at her disposal.” He smiled.

It was a tantalizing idea.

Not the part about marrying a surfacer human, of course, but the part about dethroning Bhelen and claiming back what was owed to her and what belonged to her. 

“And how do you plan on explaining to Duncan that you need one of his Wardens - who made an oath, as you are aware - to be your queen?” Fiona inquired. 

“I’m sure he’ll be understanding, once the darkspawn menace is handled.” 

“ _ If _ it is handled,” she corrected him. “If you truly wish to unite Orzammar and Ferelden, you’ll have to take the darkspawn a tad more seriously, else you will have no  _ dwarva  _ kingdom left to unite with yours.”

“I take the darkspawn very seriously, my lady. I am fully equipped to adopt the responsibilities of ensuring Orzammar’s continued safety and prosper. Alas. We will have to continue discussing after the battle - though I’m confident we will come to something agreeable.” He smiled again, reaching for his glass and tipping it towards her before taking a decided drink. “Your people are owed justice and the truth, regardless of if you’ll accept my hand or not. I would like to see it exacted either way, and will do all I can to see it through.”

The prospect of getting to go back, getting to reclaim all she had lost. She could send a messenger to Denerim for Gorim and return him to his rightful place as her second. Bhelen would die as all traitors did: alone, fodder for the darkspawn, if she didn’t lose her temper and sever his head first. And if her people refused to accept or acknowledge the truth, she would make them. She would use Cailan and his soldiers to make them. It was a dirty, unethical move; but the best way to defeat an enemy was to adopt their ways. It was not too late to turn her fate around, after all. The options were at her fingertips.

Her own smile rose quick and thin to her lips. “As would I,” she said, raising the glass to her lips in agreement.

**X**

Cailan matched her smile, watching her from over the rim of his glass with a calculating look. He’d crossed one leg over the other, hand braced upon his knee. “I do have a lasting question for you, however,” he said quietly.

Fiona sucked her teeth. “Mm?”

“When we met in Orzammar… do you remember?”

She scoffed. “Of course I do. You ran about the kingdom like an excitable idiot, poking and prodding at all the armor and weapons stands. Your father could hardly get your attention focused long enough for proper introductions.” 

The king laughed from the chest. “It’s not often that one gets to witness the mighty craftsmanship of the dwarva firsthand! Though you have my overdue, yet sincere, apologies for not giving you the attention you commanded.”

“Me? You were there to speak with my father, not I.” She arched a brow at him.

At realizing his choice of words, he smiled awkwardly and shifted in his seat. “A boy of my age wasn’t very interested in having talks with an old, but wise man. You caught my eye, you know. Even then. Perhaps we were fated to wed?” He chuckled.

Fiona was not amused. “Doubtful.” 

Handsome for a surfacer though he was, with broad shoulders and a stomach ripe with muscle, he was still a human. Still a surfacer. Fiona would do what it took to get her kingdom back, but she would not accept wedding a human lightly. The king’s rather poor attempts at flirting with her was met with a disdained look, a pointed sip of the wine he had poured for her. 

But as was the surfacer king’s disposition, he smiled in the face of her lack of amusement. “Wishful thinking, of course,” he explained quietly. The wine had warmed his cheeks, besetting his skin with a glowy, flushed pink. “Did you ever have anyone in Orzammar that met your standards well enough to hold your attention, Lady Aeducan?”

It was a wordy way of asking if she had experience in romantic endeavors. That he was poking at her history didn’t sit well with her, but as the wine had warmed his belly, it was beginning to warm hers, too. “Not that it matters anymore,” she answered, “But yes. A few. Why? You wish to know my standards? I can assure you without all these needless words that you will be hard pressed to meet them.”

He laughed. “I suspected as much. You are a warrior princess whose mettle in battle is scarcely competed against, and now, a Grey Warden. You meet every bar my father ever set about the recipe to a great hero. But if there are any tips you could provide on how to gain your favor…?” He shifted in his seat, giving a brief shake of his head, the smile on his lips broadening. “I would hate for my potential wife to be displeased with me. I admit I’m a bit ignorant to dwarven courting traditions. Not that the eve of battle is any time to get anything substantial underway, but while we’re here...”

Fiona spared a look over her shoulder at the tent’s exit. She was getting more comfortable and indulging more wine than she had planned and what she should have. Duncan was tending to the bodies of Ser Jory and Daveth, and she presumed Alistair would be with him… Surfacer funeral rites involved building a pyre, speaking declarations of faith from their Chant of Light, and setting the pyre alight with fire. The pyre was only in its beginning stages when a messenger arrived to request Fiona’s presence with the king. They would be occupied for a while longer, she wagered, and while she didn’t take nicely to being prodded at like a bauble to disarm, she enjoyed the attention that she would have otherwise received from Gorim in Orzammar.

She looked back to Cailan, who remained ever smiling, patient, and attentive. “Dwarven courting traditions require more action than any story of battle valiance you’ve been told,” she said. “It is one thing to hear of swordfighting. How versed are you in the action of it?”

“I have trained my entire life,” he answered pleasantly. “General Loghain is a renowned warrior throughout all of Ferelden, one of our finest, and he contributed greatly to my training, but he was hardly the only one. Longswords are only the beginning of weapons I know how to wield. Spears and pikes, shields, greatswords, daggers, bows… whatever your task might require, I’m sure I can accomodate.”

She nodded. He liked to hear himself talk, she concluded. “The surface has creatures that are great and big, covered in fur with jaws powerful enough to break bones and teeth as sharp as steel.” She furrowed her brow as she tried to remember the name. “What are they called…? Boars?”

“Bears?”

“Bears!” She snapped her fingers in recognition. “Tradition dictates that an aspiring husband present the woman of his fancy with a pelt as a gesture of the shroud of protection he will grant her with their union. Deepstalkers and brontos are hardly the most satisfying kills, however. Deepstalkers are small, mewling creatures that bite ankles and brontos are too lazy to serve as a substantial battle opponent.” She smiled. “I want the pelt of a bear.”

“Bear-slaying,” he said with a rather excited smile, leaning back in his chair. “I can handle slaying a bear. You-”

“What do you know of elven poetry?”

“Er… elven poetry? A little, I suppose. It never-”

“I happen to enjoy elven poetry. Particularly when it is recited to me while I’m submerged in a luxurious bath by a comely man in gleaming armor.” 

“You… are serious?” Surprise melted into intrigue. “I would be happy to-”

“Gifts! The goldest, shiniest gems you can find, as dwarva women are exceptionally hard to please and must be presented only with the finest trinkets, lest you offend her! We are fond of swords, to be more transparent, as we often have to use them on unruly husbands.”

Intrigue melted into apprehension. “Unruly…”

“Along with being exceptionally hard to please in traditional courting, we are exceptionally hard to please in bed, as our drive for sex is high and seldom met by strong, angry men more inclined to jack their own cock than touch their wife-”

“I assure you, I-”

“You will need a leather strap to bite down on, I think.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And some gatroot to keep you going. Dwarven consummation is an all-night affair, you see, if they’re even able to hold off until the wedding. The last thing you would want to do is release yourself prematurely. The wife comes first, always!”

“I…” Shock was palpable on his face, a combination of contributing factors coming from how openly she used sexual language, how openly she disclosed sexual endeavors, and leather strips? Why would he need something to bite down on? He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her smirk. “You’re having a go at me, aren’t you?”

Her smirk widened. 

A chuckle of disbelief fell from his lips. “You are.”

“About some things, anyway.” She fixed him with a look. “And now you know how untoward it is to expect someone to be able to explain an entire culture in one sitting to satisfy a curiosity for something that has not even come to pass.” She took a final sip of her wine and set the glass down on the table. “I am exiled, branded a traitor and a kinslayer. It is likely that even if I defeated the Blight myself, single-handedly, my people would still not accept me back, least of all as their queen. You aren’t genuinely holding out hope for this arrangement, surely?”

He sobered, clearing his throat as if recovering from the reel she had given him. “Hope will be last to die, my lady,” he said with a quick smile. 

He opened his mouth to say something else when an elven man in mail peered through the tent’s flap. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he blubbered, “The Warden-Commander is requesting that his recruit return to camp. They have… erm, Warden business to discuss.”

“Ah, of course.” Cailan clapped his hands to his knees as he stood. Fiona followed suit. “Let this be a temporary farewell, then, Lady Aeducan.” He clasped her forearm, inclining his head politely. “I wish you well in the coming battle, and look forward to the future acts of justice we discussed. If you will, please pass along to Duncan that I request his presence in tonight’s meeting. I wish to see  _ you  _ there, as well.”

She released his arm, perhaps a bit too soon for what was considered polite. “As it were,” she said, and turned to leave. 


End file.
